


Hush, Darling

by Alley_Skywalker



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: F/F, F/M, Hand Jobs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Voyeurism, vaguely implied sibling incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-16 14:38:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7272181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alley_Skywalker/pseuds/Alley_Skywalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Come, let’s give the ladies some privacy.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“No, no, no. We had an arrangement, she and I.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hush, Darling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [furchte_die_schildkrote](https://archiveofourown.org/users/furchte_die_schildkrote/gifts).



Helene’s hands are at Natasha’s corset. Long finger slip through the delicate ribbons of fabric, uncovering the girl’s smooth skin, inch by inch. Their mouths meet in a long, breathtaking kiss that lingers and lingers as Helene slowly slides her hands up Natasha’s waist and over her back, find the top edges of her corset which have begun to peel away and pulls them down roughs, exposing Natasha’s small breasts, instantly cupping them, teasing at the nipples. 

Natasha gasps and shifts, her hips pressing at an angle into Helene’s. Helene ducks her head and runs her lips over Natasha’s shoulders and collarbone, her neck and the curved outline of her jaw. She nips at the soft skin between Natasha’s ear and cheek, making Natasha gasp, again, an audible high-pitched sound. 

“Hush, darling,” Helene murmurs and pushes her backwards. They are beautiful, like two ancient goddesses, as they fall into the silks of the bedclothes, a fluttering of fabrics surrounding them, throwing uneven shadows against the walls and tapestries. 

Anatole can hardly see them now and he angles and shifts around in his tight space in the hidden alcove behind a tapestry hanging. Helene is straddling Natasha’s hips, both women are in nothing but their stockings at this point. Helene takes her time teasing at Natasha’s breasts and her lips, moving forward and withdrawing, exploring her new lover’s body with interest and near-tenderness. 

Anatole bites his lower lip, shifts, nearly falls over—only to feel a strong pair of arms wrap around him from behind. He stifles a startled hiccup and hisses, “ _Dolokhov!_ How?”

“Does it matter?” Dolokhov’s voice is low against his ear. Anatole can feel the heat of his breath. They are pressed tightly together, back to chest, and he can feel Dolokhov’s burgeoning arousal. 

“That’s my sister naked in there.”

“I’ve seen her naked before.”

“Damn you.”

“Come, let’s give the ladies some privacy.”

“No, no, no. We had an arrangement, she and I.”

“Hm?” Dolokhov nuzzles against his hair and Anatole half-relaxes into the embrace. 

“I let Helene have a go at Natasha and she lets me watch.” 

Natasha has become completely pliant under Helene’s touch. She arches her back and bites her lip raw to keep from moaning too loudly. Her hair has fallen out of her neat evening bun to cascade in dark waves over her shoulders and the silk pillow behind her. Helene slips one hand between Natasha’s thighs and brings the other one to her own breasts, runs her long fingers over them invitingly. 

“Are you sure all you want to do is watch?” Dolokhov’s hand slides under Anatole’s shirt and then into his britches, finds his hard member and begins a light, teasing rhythm of pressure and release. 

Anatole makes a chocked sound, bucking forward against Dolokhov’s hand. “ _Christ._ Fedya.” 

As Anatole continues to watch Helene and Natasha paint a picture of lust and pleasure with their bodies, Dolokhov holds Anatole close with one arm around his waist, his other hand busy with Anatole’s arousal, the rhythm of his strokes increasing as Helene’s and Natasha’s own breathing and strangled moans become louder and more frequent. His own senses are heightened to agonizing limits. He buries his face in Anatole’s hair, closes his eyes so all of his perception is fixated on the feel of Anatole’s skin against his hand, the warmth of Anatole’s body pressed against him in the dark. 

“Natasha,” Anatole breathes almost brokenly, “Helene.” 

Dolokhov smiles indulgently, almost painfully. “Hush, darling,” he breathes against Anatole’s temple as the boy comes into his hand.

Beyond the tapestry, Natasha cries out her own release, arches wildly, supporting herself with both hands against the bed as she pushes her entire body into Helene’s, and finally collapses into Helene’s waiting arms.


End file.
